


Everywhere

by RoseColoredDreams



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Heartbreak, Romance, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-24 00:28:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17090642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseColoredDreams/pseuds/RoseColoredDreams
Summary: She may not have had her freedom, but she had him. No matter what, she had vowed to be with him, wherever their paths lead. She would be with him everywhere.





	1. Can You Hear Me Calling

Hell is often misrepresented as a hot and fiery damnation at the bottom of a pit, when in reality it was cold and forever wet on the surface of a restless ocean. The demons aboard this ship were thick-haired Norsemen, and if anyone aboard this Godforsaken ship was the living embodiment of the devil, it was the black-eyed Njal.

Sloane had heard stories of men like them. Men who appeared without warning, who raided the temples and slaughtered the monks, taking captive anyone they did not murder, before setting the village aflame and watching it burn to the ground. These were the men she was warned about, yet their brutality had been far worse than could have ever been described.

She had first believed that the men who initially raided her village where the henchmen of the devil, but she soon came to find that this was not the case. They were just evil men, amongst more evil men, and so on.

She'd spent a month on the first slave ship, packed in a cargo hold with dying strangers, before arriving back on land. They had marched them out like cattle, tying them together by the waist and then binding their wrists. She was unfamiliar with the territory, as the forests around were thick, and the natives' accents were thicker. Francia, if she had to guess.

Their captors had brought them to a market, where vendors of every sort lined the woodlands, trading goods of all sorts. Even people, slaves, like herself. Her legs were sore, cramped from such a long journey, and her stomach ached for food and her head ached for rest. She did not resist when they had them sit down under a tent on an elaborate rug. She could have slept with her chin on her knees had it not been for the fact that she was being pulled to her feet every other moment.

Men of all different ethnicities came to view her and the women surrounding her, checking their teeth and their tits, and going back and forth with the men who had originally captured them.

When a man cloaked in dark fur and even darker hair appeared, Sloane had tried her best to keep her head down and avoid his dark-rimmed eyes. It had been no use as she felt a pair of hands lift her to her feet. Njal had pinched her breasts, touched between her legs, pushed her, pulled her hair, shoved her into another one of his men, and then paid for her. She knew he was testing her, and she would not fight back. She had seen another woman resist a man, and that had earned her a backhand across the cheek.

Njal was despicable, to say the least.

The first thing he had done when he had arrived back at his ship was strip her of her clothes, throw her on his bed, and rape her. Again, she did not resist. It would have been a waste of valuable energy, and he would have tied her down or beat her into submission anyway. He would take her, willing or not.

She laid underneath him, her eyes fixed on the ceiling above, and she prayed within her: _Give me strength, Lord. Give me guidance. Give me strength._

Once he had finished, he sat back and looked for a reaction from her, but she remained stoic. He gave her a glare, almost as if annoyed, and then shook his head and rolled off or her. 

Walking became uncomfortable and she bled for the next day. Having been a virgin until this encounter, it panicked her. Was this what intercourse was about? Is this what made marriages official? An oath by blood?

This bleeding did not deter him, and he took her on her belly the next night. She buried her head in the furs and prayed once more: _Give me strength, Lord. Bring me healing. Give me the strength to endure._

He always looked for some sort of resistance from her, some fight, but she gave him nothing but her body. _It was just flesh_ , she would tell herself, _you still have your soul_. 

After intercourse, he would then slap her to elicit some response, but all he got was her covering her face, bracing for the next hit.

Her resilience had built up long before she had been thrown into slavery. She had spent her life as a servant before this, born into an unfavorable circumstance, and in service to another household. They had never beat her unless she retaliated or disobeyed, and looking back she saw that God had prepared her for this moment.

Out of spite, Njal had taken her to the deck one night and stripped her bare in front of his men. They had been allowed to touch her, fondle her, or hit her if they so chose. She was freezing upon that deck, humiliated, exhausted, and terrified. She had cried in front of them, and this had made them laugh.   

_End my suffering, Lord. End this pain,_  She thought to herself, _Can you hear me calling?_

But this story is not about the abuses of the black-eyed Njal. This story is about the strength that God sent her, and he sent it to her in the form of a fellow Irishman at the Dublin slave market. 

After a few weeks of raping and belittling an apathetic girl, Njal grew tired of her. He wanted a woman with more spirit, more fight, and Sloane was too passive to enjoy. He traded her for another, and Sloane had never been more grateful and sorrier all in the same moment. She had watched Njal do the same pushing and shoving and harassing on another woman, and this woman had yelped and swore and delighted him. He'd left her under that tent and made off with his new woman, and suddenly her days with him were over.

She'd been shoved into another tent, one filled with more men than women, and huddled alone in a corner, finally at peace...or so she thought. 

A small group of slave men whistled at her, beckoning her with their fingers. They had spoken another language, so she could not hear the repugnant remarks they were making about her, and for that she was grateful.

"Sit next to me, lass," An unmistakable Irish accent offered her from across the tent. "I won't bother you, and neither will they."

She turned to the man speaking to her: he wore a tired expression, but to have such exhausted eyes they still held a glint of mischief. Under that scruffy beard, she caught a hint of a smirk, but she drew closer to him to get away from the jeering of the foreigners.

"Where're you from?" He asked as she folded her legs next to him.

Having not spoken in some time, her voice came out quietly. "Ireland."

His eyes lit up, and his smirk turned into a full on smile. "Ya don't say, lass!"

She thought she'd forgotten how to smile, but her lips turned upwards into a grin. How could someone in such a situation retain any sort of humor?

"If we're lucky," he said, "they'll keep us here for the next market." 

Sloane couldn't see how that would be lucky, seeing as they'd still be slaves, but it beat being bought by another Njal figure.

"What's yer name?" 

"Sloane," she replied, figuring it wouldn't make much difference if he knew. "And yours?"

He reached and grabbed her fingers, and gave them a small shake. "Call me Finan." 

 

 


	2. Out Your Name

 Sloane had fallen asleep against this Irish stranger, though he did not seem to mind her slumped against his shoulder. The other thralls within the tent looked curiously at the two, but a sharp glare from Finan and they averted their gaze. He kept a watchful eye on those passing the tent as she slept, figuring the least he could do for this poor girl was keep her safe for the time being. There's no telling where their paths would lead, and by the looks of the man who had brought her in, she had already been through a life's time of agony.

Her plain face was wearied, her skin pale half hidden by her tangled, mousy hair. She had been a captain's whore, yet leaned against him in comfort and fell asleep with total trust. There was something about the sweetness of her nature that reminded him of a girl from Ó Domhnaill, but those days were long behind him, and his focus was now on his own freedom.

As he predicted, they were left at the market overnight. He fought his own drowsiness as she slept, and just as his eyes were beginning to droop, she roused.

"I'm sorry," she hastily apologized, "I didn't mean to sleep on you."

She rubbed at her eyes in the low light and blinked at him, causing him to chuckle. "Do you make a habit of sleeping on strangers?"

It took her a moment before she realized he was joking with her, and she giggled and shook her head. "Not usually. Only the kind ones." Her head swiveled around the tent, taking in the bodies around them. "Why do they not tie us?"

"Because they know they can catch you, and when you do, they will beat you within an inch of your life." Sloane gave him a mortified look, and he shrugged, "I've seen it happen."

"Oh," she tucked her feet under her and swept her hair over her shoulder.

"What part of Ireland are you from?" Finan prompted to get her mind off that imagery.

“Cabyll. It’s a small village just upriver from Wicklow. I was a maidservant there.” She said. “And you.”

He didn’t particularly want to get into his past, nor his exile, so he simply replied, “I’ve moved all over the north, as a mercenary.” It was a lie, but she didn’t need to know that. “Since then, I’ve been everywhere as a slave.”

"Where all have you been?" Sloane asked him.

"Out into the Atlantic and back into the Baltic," Finan said sullenly. "All within a year and a half."

"I feel as if I've been everywhere and nowhere trapped inside the cabin of a ship."

Finan wanted to remark that life in the cabin of a ship was better than a life in the hull, but he figured she would feel differently about this, and simply kept it to himself. He wanted to comfort her by assuring her she would get used to it, but he knew that would never happen. Life for women, in general, was hard, life for women slaves was harder.

"You should sleep," she suddenly said, catching him off guard, then quickly added, "if you want. I'll...watch over you." She trailed off her sentence, realizing it must have sounded ridiculous.

Finan chuckled and leaned back onto his elbows. "I feel safer already."

She was surprised with herself at how comfortable she was with this stranger. For such poor circumstances, his smile was genuine and his eyes were soft. The fact that he was from Ireland and spoke her tongue was overall welcoming, and perhaps that's why she felt comforted by his presence. Either way, she was going to enjoy the luxury of speaking with someone of her own kind before they had to part ways.

***

It was early morning when a trio of men approached the tent, and they were unlike any men Sloane had seen before. Their skin was dark and brown as tanned leather, and their beards were wiry and black while their heads were covered in scarves. She nudged the sleeping Irishman next to her.

"Hmph?" Finan sat up abruptly, his body coming close to hers. He looked around for the immediate threat but eased back as his eyes quickly landed on the three men. "Turks," he whispered to her.

These men he had donned "Turks" entered the tent, their dark eyes roving the selection of slaves before them, and sure enough one pulled Sloane to her feet. His hands were not as invasive and Njal's, but he did lift her shirt above her breasts to look at her back. She looked uncomfortably to Finan, who lowered his eyes to her discretion and cast them scornfully towards the other two. The same man then pulled Finan to his feet and lifted his shirt as well, checking his back for whatever reason before pushing him and Sloane out with another handful of slaves.

"They're checking you for lash marks," He whispered to her, "They want to know how unruly you've been."

Sloane stayed close to her new companion as the three men tied their wrists together and hauled them towards a ship. She dreaded the smell of seawater more than anything, and just the sight of the small vessel made her want to vomit.

She at least had a friend now, she reminded herself. God had sent her someone so that she would not be alone in this misery. 

The Turks tucked their new cargo at one end of the ship, under the deck of the forecastle. It was open to the elements, but at least here one could breathe without the suffocating stench of sickness and human fecal matter.

The slaves were forced to sit and draw their knees to their chest, and Sloane pressed herself close to Finan and whispered, "Where do you think they are taking us?"   

He was quiet as he watched them, his jaw clenched, and replied in a hushed tone, “Far from anywhere I’ve ever been.”

***

They traversed the sea in that small vessel, which was near torture. It was easily tossed about, and with every crashing wave, Sloane could feel a new bruise forming. Finan had hooked his knee under hers to try and steady her, and allowed her, once again, to prop against him, but he could do nothing to warm her or keep her from feeling sick. That was the misery they both had to endure.

It was days before the seas settled, and the Turks carried them further inland, up a river, into the wilderness they did not know. The forests along the banks were dark, and any thought of escaping here was thwarted. Where in the world she would go if she could escape was beyond her, and she would not get far with her wrists tied. 

Sloane was starving, however, and she could not wait that out like she could an ocean storm. The last meal she had was with Njal, and although he abused her regularly, he at least provided her regular meals.

“When was your last meal?” she whispered to Finan, wondering if he was enduring the same stomach cramps she was.

“Two days before we set sail.” he deadpanned. “I had a slice of bread that wasn’t too stale to enjoy.”

“You think they will feed us?” she asked, casting a glance to the Turkish men tending to the deck of the ship.

“When they see fit to.”

“And when would that be?” Sloane questioned.

“When they see you’re half dead. They can’t make their coin if you’re dead.” He sounded generally uninterested in this conversation, as it only made his stomach ache more than it already was. He rested his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. Sloane, however, had a plan.

She waited another few hours before following through with her little scheme, and just as the sun loomed over the boat she began to hyperventilate, drawing the attention of the surrounding slaves and her companion beside her, but most importantly, she had the Turks' attention.

“What the devil’s wrong with you!” Finan whispered harshly but was shoved aside as one of the men reach for Soane and pulled her out onto the deck. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and she moaned and gasped, clutching at her stomach.

Finan watched as the Turk waved two more of his men over. The spoke quickly to one another, arguing over what was to be done, he assumed. They touched her neck and slapped at her face, trying their best to rouse her from this spell, when finally one gave in and hoisted her over his shoulder and carried her below deck.

"Christ Almighty," Finan half swore half prayed under his breath. What was wrong with her? Had she swallowed too much seawater?

Moments later they emerged with a semi-conscious Sloane and placed her back next to Finan with a blunt shove. Her half-lidded eyes fluttered, and he waited for their backs to turn before he spoke to her.

“What was that about?” Finan whispered callously, thinking of the ways her dramatic flailings would get her killed.

She rolled her eyes over to him and grinned, and after making sure no one was looking, produced a slice of bread from her bound hands. Her theatrics had paid off.

He stared at her in disbelief, then cracked a grin, "You vixen."

"Here," she urged him, making sure no one else had seen what she had, "Take this, it's for you." 

"Why the bloody hell would you do that?" 

She shoved the bread into his hands and folded his shirt over it. “There have been very few people in my life who have been as kind to me as you have been, and we’ve only just met.” She said. “It’s in my best interest to keep you alive.”   

Finan held back his chuckle and pushed the bread to his lips.

**

The men of the ship eventually made camp, leaving their cargo to stay put on the boat overnight. They must have been sick of rolling across the water, for Sloane knew that she was, but at least they were docked. This night, Sloane and Finan whispered to one another what it would be like to escape.

"I'd head for Wessex," Finan said. "Become a swordsman, cut out a living." 

"You wouldn't go home to Ireland?" 

Finan cringed internally. "Nothing for me there," he flicked his eyes to her, "Would you return?"

She shrugged, "Nothing for me there, either." The image of her village being razed to the ground still fresh in her mind. "I suppose it's Wessex for me, too."

They both smiled as if they would both be returning to England sometime soon as if they were already free, and not stuck on a Turkish boat bound for God knows where.  

 Come morning they set off down the river once more, and by late afternoon had arrived at another marketplace. It was much smaller than the last but seemed fairly busy. Before they were ordered to stand, Sloane gave Finan's hand a squeeze as if to offer a silent goodbye. There was no telling where their paths may lead, should they separate here or somewhere down the road, it was bound to happen. The life of a slave was ever changing. 

Finan leaned into her whispered, "Wessex."

***

They were separated into different tents, men and women, and the women were made to strip off their clothes. The best Sloane could think was that at least it was warmer here, for being nude had become something of an expectation, however unpleasant. What pride did she have left after being a Norseman's whore?

"Is he your man?" A Scottish woman - by the sound of it - leaned in and whispered to her.

Sloane turned, somewhat surprised. "Who?"

"The man ya been whisperin' to," She said, "The dark-haired man. You snug close like your husband and wife." 

Sloane balked, her face going red. "No, oh no... He and I have only just met and we are both-"

"Irish," She finished. "I know when I hear one. Being from the same land don't make you friends, though." 

"And why not?" 

The Scottish woman rolled her eyes. "You ever asked him how he ended up a slave? Most men are brigands or murderers that end up here." Sloane set her jaw and wished to speak no more, though this woman continued speaking. "He could be playing you for a fool." 

Before Sloane could retaliate, one of the Turks grabbed her arms and pulled her forth into the sunlight, bare naked. Her hands moved to cover her breasts, and the dark man looking down at her shook his head. She caught Finan out of the corner of her eye, and his eyes never looked so hard as he glared at the men standing before Sloane. _Those could be the eyes of a murderer_ , she thought as she looked him over. Could she trust him?

His eyes caught hers briefly before she was dragged back into the tent, and another woman dragged forward. 

His eyes had landed on her kindly, and she held on to that look. He was a friend, as she could not be picky, and should he prove traitorous, it was not as if they would be together for very much longer. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy News Years!  
> Took me long enough to get this posted. I've had to do a lot of research for this story in general, as I'm unsure when the Turks became involved with trade of Europeans... the Barbary trades weren't done until a little later after the timeline of TLK.... yada yada, I'm just here to entertain, not give a history lesson.   
> Enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> We're sort of jumping into this, but more of Sloane's backstory will converse in later chapters. This is going to be quite a story.


End file.
